


Blood on the Leather

by coinin



Series: Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Injury, Jesse McCree's danger kink, M/M, Mild Blood, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 13:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15607383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coinin/pseuds/coinin
Summary: After McCree gets captured by Talon, Hanzo shows up - but is he there to rescue McCree, or has he turned on Overwatch?





	Blood on the Leather

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting Tumblr prompt fills.
> 
> [Mataglap](https://mataglap.tumblr.com/) requested "Needing to kiss to hide from bad guys" but I kind of stretched the definition of "hiding" to the breaking point.
> 
> NOTE: There is some very minor dubious consent in here, given the nature of the prompt. I don't think it's enough to merit the dubious consent tag, but if you're sensitive to consent issues please be forewarned.

Getting captured always sucks, doubly so when it’s not even a question of being outclassed, just spectacularly bad timing and a couple of lucky bounces for the Talon grunts. Knowing it was bad luck is cold comfort as far as McCree is concerned, blindfolded with hands tied behind his back and jolting along an uneven road in the back of a van, trying his damnedest to avoid a concussion every time the van takes a corner too fast and sends him tumbling across the floor. It’s a tactic they used sometimes in Blackwatch, which would be grimly amusing if McCree had any amusement to spare.

It might be thirty minutes, or it might be a couple of hours - McCree’s completely lost track - when the van parks and they drag him out into a cold, echoing space that McCree guesses is either a warehouse or a parking garage. He’s battered and aching and his head still hurts from when they slammed him into the pavement, but he’s pretty sure he’s not concussed, so that’s a tick in the win column. Unfortunately, it’s completely outweighed by his knee being absolutely fucked, to the point that he can’t support his own weight for more than a second before it buckles and his guards have to catch him. He sure hopes a rescue operation is in the works, because escaping on his own in this condition is going to be a pain in the ass.

Talon doesn’t seem to have anticipated taking prisoners, because when they pull the blindfold off he’s in what looks like a hastily stripped hotel room. His guards drop him next to a wall, and McCree drags himself upright and leans against it, watching as one guard turns on all the lights and the other pulls out his comm. They snap a few photos of McCree, get a video of him telling them to fuck themselves, and after the standard taunts and grandstanding, which McCree ignores, they leave. He wonders if he’s a hostage and the photos are so they can ransom him back to Overwatch, or if they’re planning to sell him to the highest bidder. 

His guards had left him some bottled water but didn’t bother untying his hands, whether out of malice or incompetence McCree can’t tell, so he makes himself as comfortable as possible and tries to ignore the fact that he’s thirsty and everything hurts. He has a feeling it’s going to be a long night.

The sound of heavy boots in the corridor outside wakes McCree out of a doze - he feels briefly sorry for anyone who ever stayed in this place when it was a hotel; their soundproofing is shit - and then the door slams open. There’s a couple of the armored Talon grunts, this time accompanied by an irritated-looking uniformed woman whose bearing screams low level officer. Small mercies - they let him piss before he’s marched off between the two grunts, down the hall to the elevator and then all the way to the top of the building.

It’s morning, as McCree finds out when they step from the elevator into some kind of greenhouse jungle; the top of the building one giant, hard light dome filled with lush and perfectly manicured plants - bushes, flowering shrubs, even small trees. It’s humid and smells like earth and flowers, stone-paved paths winding through the greenery until they converge on a sunken, terraced clearing under the center of the dome.

McCree sees Doomfist first, unfamiliar in a suit, and seated across from him in a delicate wrought iron chair is Hanzo. McCree stumbles, one of the guards hauling him upright and muttering curses.

Hanzo is immaculate in a pinstriped three piece suit, overcoat draped over his shoulders and blue silk tie gleaming at his throat. He glances up as McCree and his guards clatter down the steps, his face cold and sharp and superior, his lips drawn up in a faint sneer.

“Your payment, as requested,” Akande says, gesturing elegantly to McCree as the guards come to a stop and force him to his knees, and a cold wave of foreboding washes over McCree: he would have sworn that Hanzo wasn’t ready to double cross them, but he’s been wrong before, and the evidence of that mistake still works for Talon today.

Hanzo stands and walks over to McCree, his overcoat flaring around him, every movement brimming with arrogance. McCree meets Hanzo’s gaze, stares into those cold, flat eyes, looking for any sign - and then Hanzo reaches down and grasps McCree’s chin in his right hand, leather gloves smooth against McCree’s skin. Hanzo hauls him upright with that iron grip, McCree struggling to lift himself on his busted knee.

It takes McCree completely by surprise when Hanzo inclines his own head and presses their lips together in a hard, painful kiss; he gasps, and Hanzo thrusts his tongue into McCree’s mouth, taking. He pulls back after a few long moments, cold eyes again meeting McCree’s stunned gaze, but this time there’s something considering as he watches McCree. 

The kiss reopened McCree’s split lip, but before he can lick away the blood Hanzo’s thumb brushes almost sweetly over the cut, and as McCree drops back down to his knees, Hanzo delicately licks the blood from the black leather.

“I didn’t realize he was your _boyfriend_ ,” Akande says, a mocking undercurrent to his voice.

“Hardly,” Hanzo responds, frigid. “Simply a misbehaving possession who needs to be reminded who he belongs to. Isn’t that right?” Hanzo addresses his last words to McCree.

There’s a strange emphasis to the question, and McCree - he’s always been a gambling man, and as he looks up at Hanzo, meets that murderer’s gaze, he realizes he’s going to stake it all on a whim and a prayer.

“Yes sir,” he says, dropping his eyes to the ground.

“Good boy,” Hanzo purrs.

“I wasn’t aware of this... alliance,” Akande says, but he sounds interested.

“Of course you weren’t,” Hanzo replies, airily self-assured. “It was an arrangement made in my youth.” Which is a bald-faced lie; McCree hadn’t met Hanzo before he showed up at Gibraltar’s front gate in the middle of a summer storm, looking like the world’s angriest drowned rat - or maybe a wet hedgehog, considering how prickly he was at first.

“You turned a Blackwatch agent. I’m impressed.”

“I hear your organization turned their commander,” Hanzo replies, and from the corner of his eye he sees Akande twitch in surprise. “Pity you had to resort to brainwashing.” Hanzo is examining his glove, the picture of arrogance. “Well? I assume you kept his possessions? A dog is useless without teeth.”

And just like that, McCree knows he bet right. Hanzo has only been with Overwatch around four months, and this was his first active mission with them. They’ve run countless simulations, getting used to working together as a full team, and Hanzo’s ridden along in the Orca to listen in and observe, but he’d never been boots on the ground until the day before. With how quiet Overwatch has been keeping about their new member, and how far from McCree’s location Hanzo was when McCree was captured, there’s a very good chance Akande doesn’t know Hanzo has already chosen a side.

Hanzo might just be the cavalry McCree has been waiting for.

Akanda and Hanzo snipe at each other for a little longer, Akande eager to discuss the terms of Hanzo’s employment with Talon - apparently McCree is something of a signing bonus - and Hanzo subtly insulting him, and then another Talon lackey arrives carrying a tray. McCree’s serape is folded neatly on the tray, his hat on top of it, Peacekeeper gleaming next to them. Hanzo pays as much attention to the lackey as to a piece of furniture; drops McCree’s hat on his head before he picks up Peacekeeper and inspects it with a critical eye.

They’ve joked around with each other’s weapons before, once or twice down in the firing range when they were both in a good mood: McCree trying out Hanzo’s bow and snapping his forearm with the bowstring so hard he’d had a welt there for a week, Hanzo complaining about the noise and the recoil of McCree’s revolver. It had been a bit of fun, even if the sight of Hanzo’s hands on Peacekeeper had done awkward things to McCree’s nether regions.

It’s the same now - Reyes used to tell McCree he had no self-preservation instinct, and McCree had laughed it off, but watching Hanzo’s gloved hands confidently checking Peacekeeper for damage, swinging out the cylinder (two shots left, just like McCree remembers,) he’s inclined to agree with Reyes’ assessment: he’s not entirely sure Hanzo isn’t about to put a bullet in his skull, and it’s still one of the hottest things he’s ever seen.

Apparently satisfied, Hanzo snaps the cylinder into place, raises Peacekeeper, and cocks the hammer in one smooth motion. 

“ _Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau_ ,” he shouts as he pulls the trigger, and the dragons burst forth, spiraling around the path of the slug, electric blue and breathtakingly beautiful.

Akande realizes what’s happening a split second before Hanzo fires, and dives to the side; McCree can tell Hanzo is tracking Akande’s movement but he’s too used to leading for an arrow’s trajectory, and the shot goes wide - close enough that McCree can smell burning flesh from where the dragons singed Akande, but not close enough to kill him, more’s the pity.

“You thought you could buy me, Akande?” Hanzo bellows over the roar of the dragons. “You could never have me, honorless scum!” He fires again, and this time he clips Akande, who stumbles as he’s sprinting for safety, only to be dragged into the elevator by his underlings.

Several things seem to happen at once - Peacekeeper spent, Hanzo throws himself over McCree and produces a knife to cut the bindings on McCree’s hands, several muffled explosions shake the building, and above them the dome shudders and evaporates, the hard light generators destroyed. The Orca is there, hovering above them as Ana and Morrison lay down covering fire, and Genji drops down on a rappelling line. This part, at least, is familiar from a hundred Blackwatch fast extractions: McCree stumbles up and lets himself be buckled into a harness against Genji’s chest, and soon they’re all safely in the Orca and Tracer is pulling a quick getaway.

Hanzo finds McCree after Angela finishes patching him up, sits down quietly and waits until McCree turns his head & gives Hanzo a tired smile.

“Hey,” McCree says. “Thanks for the help back there.”

Hanzo silently hands him Peacekeeper, neatly wrapped in McCree’s serape.

“I would like to apologise for taking liberties with your person,” Hanzo says, formal and stilted.

“No apologies needed - not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but you got me out of a nasty spot there. You do what you gotta do when you’re on a mission.”

“Still,” Hanzo says, frowning. He won’t quite meet McCree’s eyes. “I do not enjoy assaulting colleagues. Or friends.”

“Alright,” McCree replies. He’s touched that Hanzo cares enough to apologise, and ever more so that Hanzo just called him a friend.

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Angela had left McCree with a miniature biotic emitter, and the warm glow almost feels like sitting out in the sunshine on a perfect day, if he closes his eyes and ignores the muted roar of the Orca’s engines. Hanzo doesn’t leave, instead crossing his arms and settling in as if to keep watch. McCree thinks about nights in the range, or spent drinking together, keeping their respective demons at bay, and he thinks about Hanzo’s hands, moving sure on Peacekeeper or wrapped around a cup of tea.

“Wouldn’t mind it - being yours, that is,” he says, looking sidelong at Hanzo. 

Hanzo’s face twists, settling on something between anguish and disgust.

“You’re a decade too late, if you desire a relationship like that,” he says quietly, eyes on the floor.

It takes a second for McCree to catch Hanzo’s meaning, but when he does he shakes his head and knocks their hands together. 

“Not like that. It’s been a long time since I wanted to take pain - got enough aches these days without adding more. But if you want to try kissing again, some time when we don’t got an audience - I’d like that.”

McCree gets to watch as the pain on Hanzo’s face melts away into surprise, and then a smile dawns slow and sweet, until Hanzo’s eyes crinkle at the corners and hope blooms warm behind McCree’s breastbone.

“I would like that as well,” Hanzo says quietly, and he takes McCree’s hand in his own, still smiling.


End file.
